


Bits and pieces from behind the sofa

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bread, Crack, Friendship, Gen, Gratuitous puns, M/M, Multi, One Modern AU amongst the bunch, Soul Bond, Touch Deprivation, Werebread, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of several drabbles, short fics, mostly humorous. All of them are labelled in the chapter title box, and the prompt that inspired it will be in the beginning notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valjean is a werebaguette and Javert is made of butter

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Valjean/Javert, Valjean is a werebaguette and Javert is made of butter

Plump, golden and crusty, the bread lay there on the plate, like Iphigenia on the altar, some integral part of it hidden, though it displayed itself so wantonly, and Javert watched as the shadows shortened and the sun swept through the window, reaching for the loaf with greedy rays, allowing himself to draw a deep breath when finally they touched the platter.

The change was swift and sudden, the loaf split itself up the middle to the halfway point, and swelled to an incredible size, lengthening and thickening, one end rapidly obtaining the features of a man, until like a merman formed by the oven not the sea, a half bread, half human form sat before him- Valjean’s face and the yeasty goodness of a loaf behind, and Javert exulted- “I have caught you,” he rasped, “no more shall the kin of the gingerbread terror rampage the streets, your sconeing of the law shall not go ignored, grab your bag-uette and come with me, and so-da can be no mistake I shall seize you in this state no matter what rye smile you give me.”

“You have no power over me,” Valjean answered, still half-and-half as he was, “I know what you are Javert, I know that you have no heart of stone, but one of pure molten dairy goodness, that far from sconeing the transformed…you are one of us, you belong on the margarine’s of society, you are no gentleman or lardy,” and his voice took on a commanding quality as he opened his bready legs, “spread yourself thickly for me, Javert, for I cannot believe you are not butter.”


	2. Republicanism is an STD that Enjolras transmits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Republicanism is an STD that is transmitted by the Enjolrass alone so Enjolras seduces Louis Philippe in order to free France

‘I have come to sleep with you,’ announced Enjolras, and when that garnered no response beyond an inquiring look, his brow wrinkled. ‘I had it on the best authority that that would work.’

The King looked politely confused. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I do not wish to disappoint you as I fear I have disappointed so many of your ilk, but really you puzzle me. Do you wish me to give up my bed to you? That would be unbecoming of a monarch and besides it is only just past noon. Surely too early for an active youth such as yourself to be wanting to lie slug-abed,’ and his hand made a motion as though to ring a small bell.

Enjolras strode forward, the light of revolution in his eyes, the weight of a nation upon his stern brow. ‘I am afraid sire, that I am here to seduce you. I beg you not to play coy.’ 

The King looked around, clearly mildly perplexed by the turn this had taken. ‘I cannot recommend this course of action,’ he said, ‘I have not yet lunched and my digestion is not strong enough to play any sort of erotic charade. Perhaps if you make an appointment with my chancellor and arrive when I feel a little stronger then I might be more able to oblige?’

Enjolras paid no heed to this polite deflection, but instead loosed his cravat, and with a swift tug bared the splendid chest that housed a heart that beat only for France, and the King as well he might was struck into confusion and a certain heat. ‘We do not have time,’ Enjolras announced, ‘every day the voices lament louder, France protests unjust treatment, proud Patria is bowed beneath the whip,’ and with swift hands he completed the removal of his shirt. 

‘I do not understand what I can do,’ murmured the King, overcome by the splendour unveiled, and already beginning to feel most revolutionary within his casual trousers, and beseiged with vague thoughts of various charitable schemes, the pleasures of once more being a private citizen, the lure of cheap wine at some place called the Cafe Musain.

‘You can help me make a better world,’ Enjolras said, and that pale obdurate countenance flushed, and the eyes gazed past into a brighter future. ‘After all  _dulce et decorum est pro patria pēdīcāre._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The latin is incredibly bastardised. But basically it is ‘sweet and right to fuck for one’s country.’


	3. Courfeyrac, Valjean, puns and coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> courfeyrac/valjean coffeeshop au

“Your drinks won’t be too long,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully.

“Toulon?” was the immediate panicked response, “what about Toulon?”

Courfeyrac looked at him and saw the tenseness, “I think sir,” he said with a smile, “you need a nice cup of java.”

“Javert? Where?” and this time true panic passed across the face of the other man.

“I think you actually probably need cossetting more than anything else right now actually,” Courfeyrac said slowly as he put the money in the till.

“Oh I have a Cosette,” the customer replied absently, a relieved smile breaking out. 

“…I need to stop digging,” Courfeyrac said to himself.

“I’ve been to Digne,” was the response.


	4. Valjean has a cat-dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean has a cat dick

Torn with a lust he could not understand, riven by his disgust at himself Javert trembled and watched as Madeleine fumbled with his trousers, unable to bear the thought of how he longed for that heavy prick to be freed.

At last it was accomplished and Madeleine looked up with fiercely triumphant eyes, “look on it well,” he said in low tones.

Javert’s forehead creased first with confusion at the sight of the tiny almost unseeable protuberance- then with horror and remembrance said, “the prick of a cat on the frame of a man- only once before have I heard this…you are Jean Valjean!”


	5. Grantaire/Jehan, touch deprivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire obtains a hug and something more from Jean Prouvaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we get some touch-starved Grantaire getting cuddles/comfort from his friends? I don’t even care why he’s upset (or even if he’s upset at all) I just want Jehan or somebody hugging him and him breaking down because it’s the nicest thing anybody’s done for him in he can’t remember how long.

Grantaire has had a long weary day, indeed a long weary life he sometimes thinks dully, measured in bottles and gallons not minutes and days. There are bright sparks of course, and he has found many of them here in this small band of friends. Friends in some sense of the word at least- Enjolras may not remember if it’s Grantaire or Granthair, but his aloof looks are as engaging as can be and something about the way he speaks, the low throb of his voice exalting his ideals makes something stir and twist and writhe in Grantaire’s stomach as though he can be stirred to action merely to catch another glance from those splendid eyes, or perhaps as though last night’s lamb is not sitting well. He listens more carefully, saves and treasures each word though outwardly he mocks and punctures, deflates those splendid sounds as though popping a snowberry on a bush in the spring. Now Enjolras is bent over a table, and his voice thrills Grantaire as he looks up, “someone should probably close the window,” he said, and it fell with the weight of the pronunciations of a thousand Gods. Helpless to show his thralldom, Grantaire needs must disagree.

"It’s quite warm outside," he said, and was rewarded with a look of irritation from Enjolras, and once more regret stirs within him. Perhaps in deference to his ability to cope with the cold, he finds himself cup in hand seated nearest to the door, and the furthest from the man who excites his spirit and makes him crave something stronger than the meagre wine in his cup. "Goat’s milk," he asks the good lady of the house, and she provides, and it strengthens his soul as it slips down his throat. It is not good to drink of the milk of the animal swept to one side in God’s plan, but Grantaire has always been of the race of goats not the race of saved sheep (cow’s milk was out of the question for reasons to painful to remember). His coin is scanty, and tonight he will have need of the bottle as he ponders on the foolishness of whatever dark force had delivered him to the bosom of his cantankerous landlord.

He cannot tear his gaze away from Enjolras who is exhorting them now to greater heights of bravery, to a more realised sense of purpose, and yet he alone is abandoned amongst the crowds, he cannot give voice to the assent which is echoed from the others. Sometimes he wishes he could, could sublimate himself within the embrace of a cause that would sweep him up and along, but his essential nature is not that from which the stuff of martyrs are drawn he knows that of himself, cannot deny it. He will not die for pretty eyes and pretty lips and words that make him feel more a man. As well join the army and fight for coin enough to pay for the ointment that treats the outbreak of stubborn spots on his nose. ‘Tis but goose-grease he is sure of it, and yet the lady had been most persuasive with her Avonne tray and Grantaire was not immune to the allurements of the flesh. His trousers were well fitted for a reason and he often wore his hat covering his face for precisely that purpose.

He is so caught in his thoughts that when he next looks up the meeting has concluded (they have agreed to go out to the meadows tomorrow and simulate the battlefield by means of pig bladders filled with paint which they will lob at each other and attempt to dodge) and the room is emptying. Only Jehan still stands there, hands on his hips and a considering look on his face. There is a wilting flower tucked in his hair, and Grantaire watches with interest as a massive sneeze racks his frame. “You have a flower in your hair,” he points out, for he is nothing but helpful, and Jehan tears it out with a curse, throws it upon the floor and pours down imprecations upon it.

“Lovely flower,” he says scornfully, “stay on my window ledge where you belong, where I can applaud your beauty but not inhale your pollen.” Having satisfied himself that the flower was dead and not going to be moving again, he turned back to Grantaire, and smiled beatifically. “Friend,” he said, “I have noticed that you have been a little down. Perchance you feel alone, unsatisfied, lonesome, abandoned, deserted,” he withdrew a little pocket book and flipped through it muttering ‘alone, alone, synonyms for alone,’ and continued for a little while. Then he moved closer. “I would end your solitary, forsaken, forlorn state by the application of an embrace, a hug, a crushing of the ribs, a sweet meeting of two souls with arms and chests with which to make each other happy.”

Grantaire was not accustomed to throwing the Gods gifts back in their teeth and he stood up eagerly. “This is the kindest thing,” he murmured, “you relieve my desolation,” and he submitted to the embrace, enjoyed the long tender moment between them, before his hands slipped down to cup Jehan’s arse and tug him closer. The backroom of the Cafe Musain was perhaps not the most ideal place for a liasion but the last person who’d offered this had done so more through signs- fluttering eyelashes, the affected moue of discontent and the occasional moo in a farmyard so he was in no position to be picky.

Jehan was lithe against him and also struggling to be freed and Grantaire let him go. “I’m sorry Grantaire,” he mumbled, “you’re just not my type. You’re not solid and hard and filled with epic poetry, nor can you give me papercuts on my prick. I’m sorry if you thought I intended anything other than the manly hug of friendship.”

Grantaire gently stepped back. “Do not apologise,” he said quietly. “You have given me happiness that I had not thought I would receive this night. To be clasped so close with pure intent has soothed my soul,” and he smiled at Jehan, one hand behind him weighing the heavy purse he’d extracted deftly from Jehan’s pocket. He would drink well and deeply on goat’s milk tonight.


	6. Courfeyrac/Marius, arranged marriage part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac/Marius, arranged marriage

“You have no choice,” M. Gillenormand said, and his tone was so final that Courfeyrac swallowed a despairing gulp, “if you so dishonour Marius by bedding him, then by Jove you shall wed him; and I want to hear no more of you claiming you were not aware that ‘I have come to sleep with you’ was in fact a marriage proposal and not an invitation to sundry lewd acts unsanctioned by priest or law,” and having said his piece he unbent enough to offer them both a thin smile, “I expect you to be very happy,” he said, and it sounded a good deal more like a command than a platitude.

They waited until he was gone before launching into recriminations- ‘a thousand girls will weep tonight when the news gets out!’ ‘I will get the clap second hand from those thousand girls,’ ‘you snore’ ‘you sleep talk’ ‘you spend all your time at that damned cafe’ ‘you like Napoleon,’ were only a few of the terrible words that flew back and forth between them.

When they were finally emptied of their despair, Courfeyrac felt his accustomed cheerfulness slowly creeping back, “I should like a reception at the Cafe Musain,” he said, “it would be very fitting to ask our guests to sweep aside wine bottles themselves, a very pertinent commentary on our relationship with hard work and the bourgeois,” he turned to seek Marius’s opinion, and saw with considerable interest that the other man had fainted.


	7. Courfeyrac/Marius, arranged marriage part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Courfeyrac and Marius's marriage.

There was a knock at the door and Courfeyrac shoved Marius’s drooling face off him with a pathetic groan- the wine had hit, as had the memories of what they’d done last night. He wasn’t prepared for the maid to bustle right in, and he let out a sound that was closer to a shriek than he might have liked. 

Strong hands rolled him over a little bit as she grabbed the sheets and yanked, leaving him and Marius (the little bastard was still sleeping through it all) in a huddle on the bed as she strode to the window and threw out the shutters and  _brandished their sheets to the world._

"What on earth do you think you’re doing?" he shouted and this time there was no doubt as to the pitch, and shuddered as he heard M.Gillenormand’s voice raised in a roar of approval.

"That’s Marius," the shout went up, "look, if you squint, the stain looks like a study of Napoleon’s profile," and then the maid turned the other side round.

With growing horror, Courfeyrac heard Enjolras’s piercing tones as clearly as M.Gillenormand’s. “That is nothing sir, my friend’s no longer lonely hole has produced a very contemporary rendering of the tricolour in conjunction with those blue and white stripes.”


	8. The Abnegation of Sister Simplice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Abnegation of Sister Simplice
> 
> (or, how those who can be reproached the least can judge themselves.)

Sister Perpetue noticed perhaps that Sister Simplice has become even more devout than had been her practice in the past.She did not know why of course, that was between the good sister and God. Sister Simplice would wake in the night and look at the ceiling, at the walls that had begun to crumble now that the Mayor had left and been replaced by a Mayor who did not care so much for the hospital. Nor did he care for the poor who could not pay their way, did not lend their voices to his election and who had neither influence nor weight. It would not be long before restlessness drove her from her bed to walk the house in perfect silence. First she would minister to the patients, and then when their minds had been soothed, water had passed their lips and the light been extinguished once more, she would with restless steps make her way to the prie-dieu that had been her preserve since first she came to this place. There she turned her face away from the silent crucifix that reproached her with her failings and fell into prayer.

 

It was not the sin of the lie that tormented her in these midnight hours, which stung her to self reproach- that she had repented herself of at leisure. No, the stain that seemed now to her mild mind to have spread itself across her character was pride. She regretted not one moment of the lie that had saved a man, but with reproach she thought of the long years of lamentable pride that she had indulged in. She had kept her lips pure but sullied herself with the comfort of her irreproachableness. She had indulged in satisfaction at her strength, had congratulated herself on her resolve, had held her head a little higher as though she had accomplished something that ought to be as second nature, as thoughtless and heedless as rain. She who still allowed herself a dainty or two, had in the quietness of her nature, allowed pride free rein.

 

Sister Simplice did not believe in abnegation without cause. However to be reticent in the matter of conscience and self examination was not a worthy trait. For the first time she had cause to envy the simplicity of Sister Perpetue and her hearty straightforwardness. The tender purity of the love of mother for daughter that Fantine exhibited, also appeared before her eyes as an exemplar of behaviour. For the sixth night in a row, she rose with aching knees and made her way back to her simple pallet bed, refreshed a little in spirit if not entirely appeased.


	9. Enjolras/Patria, soulbonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras/Patria soulbonding

"Grantaire," Jehan said and his lips were pale as he leant on the table. "Wake up you drunken sot," and he suited his words to actions as he shook his shoulder.   
  
  
More in bafflement at what could have driven the generally restrained Jehan to such abuse, Grantaire condescended to open his eyes and even prop himself up on the table for a minute. "Jehan," he slurred, "not who I expected to see when I wake from a debauch of the highest order. Did you begin after I fell?"  
  
  
"Be quiet and listen," Jehan said, knowing that if he didn't break into the conversation now, then Grantaire would begin one of his favourite monologues and they just didn't have time for anything of the sort. "It's Enjolras, and if you care nothing for the cause then perhaps you can care a little something for him. It's time."  
  
  
Abruptly sobered Grantaire opened his eyes fully and fixed them on Jehan. "Oh," he breathed and a dull flush darkened his cheeks. "I had not expected this or dreamed of hoping but how could it be otherwise? Isaac leashed to the altar, I shall be, an uncomprehending sacrifice to godlike savagery, the broken body of Harmodius bent to terrible cause, Leda seized by savage embrace. I consent to it, how could I not? Enjolras needs me and I shall provide."  
  
  
Jehan listened with increasing disbelief. "Do you have a bad case of syphilis?" he asked. "We're not asking you to let Enjolras fuck you. Or to fuck him. Where on earth would you get that idea? You're an artist aren't you? You used to study at least."  
  
  
"Under the terrible hands of Gros," Grantaire said cautiously, "I learnt my trade passing well in truth until I grew tired of the disingenuous flirts of the paint against canvas, the sad mockery of truth rendered as falsehood on paper, apples and pears like none I had ever seen, and always in various stages of decomposition so that I wonder that any man captured in a picture would have anything to eat, could he move from frame to frame."  
  
  
"Good enough for me," Jehan said dryly. "I need you to draw Patria," he continued. "Realistic as you can."  
  
  
"Draw Patria?" Grantaire repeated dumbly. "But as what?"  
  
  
"Marianne? A noble man wreathed in a tricolour? A country? I don't care Grantaire. Draw what Patria means and do it quickly before the ghastly heat takes Enjolras from us," and seeing that Grantaire wasn't going to start until he got some sort of straight answer, he condescended to explain. "It's Enjolras's time and he has indeed bonded to something. Something and not someone. He has devoted himself not just mind and soul to the concept of country to revolution but body as well, and unless he is sated then he shall die. If you draw something sufficient realistic then the closeness should save him."  
  
  
Grasping the urgency at last, Grantaire fumbled for his coat. "Money," he said roughly, and Jehan passed him his own purse.   
  
  
"Make it fast," were the last words directed after Grantaire's fleeing form, before Jehan retreated to tend his delirious friend.  
  
  
Enjolras was feverish as he tossed back and forth on the bed. "My country," he said through dry lips, no moisture left to his mouth now after the heat burned him from the inside, shrivelled him from within, and Bahorel grasped him in his strong arms and conveyed him down the stairs until they were in the garden, where the closeness to the soil seemed to revive Enjolras somewhat as though the dirt had certain properties that relieved him. Everything else they had tried had had little to no effect at all, and all hopes rested on Grantaire now.

 

A couple of hours passed and Enjolras grew ever more desperate, and Combeferre volunteered to make him more comfortable by removing the now remarkably constricting breeches. Unfortunately he'd forgotten the cockade on his lapel and leant just a little too close resulting in him retreating dazed to wipe himself off. Given some temporary relief Enjolras seemed to brighten a little and Courfeyrac retreated to run down the street possessed of an idea. At the same time as Grantaire returned with a crudely drawn sketch of Liberty on the largest canvas he could buy, Courfeyrac returned with several tricolours crudely stitched together, and gingerly they put the canvas next to Enjolras and proceeded to cover him with the tricolour. It was anyone's guess what they would find when they removed the covering. A dead Enjolras...or a sated one.  
  
  
"You know," Jehan said conversationally. "Your depiction of Liberty was a little bit like a man in a dress," and Grantaire shuffled his feet.  
  
  
"Everyone is a critic," he muttered crossly, "besides it seems to be working doesn't it," and sure enough there was decided movement under the tricolour, and moans that were quite clearly no longer ones of pain. With one accord everyone turned and crept away, allowing love to be fulfiled on the lawn.


	10. Jehan knitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan knitting.

"Penelope at her loom," Grantaire said with a half-hearted leer as though mentioning the name of a woman was necessarily followed by an unspoken avocation that of course he could have had her had he been so inclined, the virtuous Penelope apparently being no exception to the rule.  
  
Jehan did not bother to reply, did not know why Grantaire was leaning over his shoulder and breathing heavy fumes. "Cruel-hearted mistress, do you not hear my words nor my praise of your nimble fingers?" Grantaire continued, silence not enough of a hint apparently, and Jehan resisted the urge to drive a needle through his hand, if only to see if it is true that wine flows through Grantaire's veins.   
  
"Weaving is a beast of different colour to knitting," he said at last, having concentrated on a particularly difficult row, though he thinks Grantaire might be sleeping where he stands. "Penelope wove, as did Ariadne, the Fates shuffled their hands back and forth on the loom," because nothing drives Grantaire off quite so fast as somebody being serious.   
  
"Old women knit," Grantaire said. "Have you abandoned the tricolour for being a tricoteuse? Did your grandmother snigger as she watched the heads roll?" and when that garnered no reaction bar a placid click, he changed tack. "What are you knitting?" he asked.  
  
"A reasonable question," Jehan observed, "it may even deserve an answer. I am knitting, my dear Grantaire, muzzle warmers."  
  
"Even dogs have their muzzle-warmers it seems, though the Son of God had no woollen socks for his feet," is the nonsensical answer, a spice of the ridiculous serving to leaven all of Grantaire's conversation.  
  
"Not dogs, guns," is the reply, and with a neat click Jehan finished off what could pass for a stocking. "The cellar where they are kept grows damp, we fear the rust, and these shall help preserve them from failing in our hands."  
  
"Cloth should serve as well," Grantaire pointed out.  
  
"There are plenty of skinny-legged children in Paris. When the revolution is done, none of them shall go barefoot, legs shall occupy what was formed for war," and with a satisfied grin Jehan cast off his needles.  
  
"I hope you're a better shooter than you are a knitter," Grantaire remarked unfairly, looking at the lumpy result. "Jean of all trades and master of none."


End file.
